


Trials of Knighthood: The Lost Form

by Riptor25, Trinity_Dragon



Series: Trials of Knighthood [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Gen'dai, Iron Knights, Kidnapping, Male Friendship, Male-Female Friendship, Master & Padawan Relationship(s), Mind Control, Original planet
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-04
Updated: 2018-12-11
Packaged: 2019-07-25 02:15:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16187981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Riptor25/pseuds/Riptor25, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trinity_Dragon/pseuds/Trinity_Dragon
Summary: In the days of the Old Republic, a schismatic order of Jedi flourishes on a small world in the Outer Rim. The Order of Saint Elsa is known for keeping the peace, and for its odd philosophies. But when Force-sensitive children begin disappearing throughout the galaxy, and a founding member of the Order turns out missing, it is up to two young Padawans, and a non-Jedi companion, to solve the mystery of The Lost Form.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is part of an on-going series called Trials of Knighthood, co-written by Riptor25 on DeviantArt. It's slow going, so don't expect updates often. But it will be worked on, and we have many plans for this series. Six novel-length stories, and more than a dozen side stories are in the works, chronicling the story of the Order of Saint Elsa, from its founding to its end, and all the wonderful, quirky characters that make you love Star Wars.

            _CLTHHH-clank. CLTHHH-clank._ Don Mi-ow stared helplessly at the ceiling as he listened to the familial rattling of Master Bit’s nightly patrols. The compound was not large, and only about forty padawans and younglings resided in the Praxeum in addition to the few Knights and Masters who taught them. Master Bit had selected each one of them as he traversed the galaxy—each student came from different circumstances.

            Master Bit had selected him, like he had all the other students for something that the old droid-encased Master called “uniquely him.” What it was, the young human could scarcely comprehend.

            He continued staring--that being the only thing he could do at the moment. The rock above him looked like granite, much the same as the walls and floor, though the floor was polished regularly. The hall to his left was alight with torches instead, maintaining the feel of an ancient monastery, and every now and again Don heard old-style wooden bedposts creak and scratch as another body shifted in its sleep.

            According to Master Bit, the lack of high technology provided the mind the opportunity to slow down and take stock of life--in other words, meditation. The abolition of technology extended to more than just lights, however. In his studies, Don used a bound pad of flimsy, an inkpot and a quill pulled from a native fowl. The kitchen was much the same, the students cooking their own meals over outdated appliances--some of which looked older than the Headmaster. Some of them were probably cousins.

            Meditation, though, was a powerful tool to steady the mind. Don tried to regulate his breathing, repeating the Jedi code to himself in an attempt to fall asleep. _In, out. There is no passion, there is serenity._ He took another deep inhalation and held it for a moment before breathing again. _There is no chaos, there is harmony._ He sucked in another breath and realized it was not working. _I should try the meditation room_. Then again, that room had a history in itself, not exactly ideal for meditation. But the lingering energy was that of the Light, an aura of salvation that a trained mind could use to enhance meditation.

            It stemmed from the incident that had lead to the founding of the Praxeum--an encounter with a baron possessed of a mind-controlling substance, back when Master Bit was only a padawan with the late Master Coram Deo and his counterpart Master Nokturne. The Dantooine Enclave had sent the three as mediators to Mynersha, as Don recalled. But that was only the surface; as they began their investigation, stranger and stranger happenings began to interfere until all of Hades seemed to have broke loose.

            The incident had culminated in an attack against the three Jedi by hordes of the baron’s depraved monsters--formerly sentient beings of whom the ooze possessed.

            This was not helping, Don realized with a pang of irritation. He sighed heavily and shifted in his bed. _Calm down,_ he told himself. What was it Master Coram was always quoted as saying? _Where’s my grenade?_ Don smiled--it was a running joke whenever the instructors asked about Master Coram’s philosophical views. A grenade would do where a lightsaber would get in the way.

            But no, it was to keep back from the fighting until the opportunity presented itself. The dead Cathar had been a master of ranged weaponry, so the students were told. His style reflected knowledge of battle combined with use of heavy weapons and the Force that made the tradition seem nonsensical to use by itself. Thus, the Coram Deo tradition had the subtle advantage keeping the enemy at a distance whilst assessing the field for the most strategic of openings. It was a Force form that required a calm mind and hours of meditation to master. It allowed a certain mode of telepathy that gave an ally the ability to see the battle from another angle. Often, a change in perspective could afford the opportunity to end a confrontation quickly and with minimal bloodshed.

            However, like every other tradition, it required patience--much like waiting for sleep to come to the body. Don needed activity, something to tire his body down--anything to work out the tensions that kept him awake. Training purged the body of impurities, and left one exhausted afterward. Moreover, he could always use the practice.

            Hid dull, gray uniform hung from the bedpost and dragged on the floor. It consisted of a moderately loose robe and a belt. The belt itself was standard issue, available at the market on Mynersha, just east of the praxeum. His contained several stun grenades, a small grappling hook and cable dispenser, and his lightsaber.

            The robe hung loosely over the human’s wiry frame, much as the fabric was designed to do. A cursory inspection of himself revealed that his dirty head of brown hair was unkempt and spiked comically to the left, and that he was in need of a shave. There was no sense, he supposed in trying to make himself look presentable--if he got caught it would be the same fate either way. Satisfied that he was not violating any conduct codes, aside from being out after curfew, he snapped his belt into place with only the faintest of clicks.

            Don stalked out of the barracks and down the corridor to the left. The torchlight was bright by comparison to the pale moonlight shining through his window. The room he sought was located some distance away on the other side of the praxeum’s grounds. For the Headmaster to catch you during transit was an hour of lecturing about maintaining the Order’s discipline and adherence to the rules set forth by its founding Jedi.

            Of course, this was nowhere near the first time that Don had spirited himself away to the training hall, and his mastery of stealth was one of the few natural gifts he possessed. The lecture was one of his favorites, if only because it produced in him fond memories of his days as a youngling. Shortly after the admonition that Master Bit was obligated to afford to the students, he would put them to bed and to lull them to sleep, telling them the story of the founding of the Order of Saint Elsa.

            During their history lessons, the story was dry and detached of all humor and wit; indeed, it fell into a dreadful monotony that indiscriminately encompassed all of galactic history. But that was only the broadest of the schooling Don and his fellows had endured. The other Masters--about five of them in total—each had a specialized field of study in addition to different Force forms and combat styles. It was classical education in the fashion of a boarding school for the extraordinarily gifted.

            Master Bit taught some on the application of language for diffusing hostile situations--a public relations class by any other name. It was reputed (with some skepticism on the part of the newest Knights to arise from the Order) that it was actually Master Deo and not Bit Hantoff who served in that original capacity. Though as to the truth of the rumor, no one but the old Masters themselves would know. And only Bit was around these days. But, on some days, during Master Bit’s classes, they would visit the small, compressed archives and begin digging through stacks of holo-discs and datapads (the only true technology aside from the lightsaber allowed in the halls of the praxeum) in order to gain some modicum of understanding of the history of the Republic’s outer worlds. Each student would present his findings and Master Bit judged them according to the level of comprehension, and the amount of work put in.

            But as far as the padawan was concerned, his youngling days were ancient history. His focus now was training, though he was still required to show an efficient amount of familiarity in all of the required spheres of knowledge. During training, the instructing Jedi often subjected his or her pupils to different scenarios that required some application of an obscure matter of precedence--for instance, an ancient murder case reported to the Dantooine academy.

            _Ironic that I should think of that case,_ Don thought offhandedly. The young Jedi in question was in training himself and that case had been a part of _his_ training. And then there was the story of Mynersha-- _Always coming back to that…_ he shook his head, turning another corner. The night was still young, he knew, and he would tire himself out soon enough and be back to sleep until revelry the next morn.

            Don found himself darting across a lawn next to the path that led to the training room. The torch above the door was still alight above an oaken door, casting a gentle, warm glow on the stonework path. The old wooden door was unlocked and groaned as he pushed it open. He winced, hearing the hinges screech and hoped that no one had heard, and then closed the door once again as silently as he could manage.

            Here, too, torches lit the room in a pleasant radiance that bordered on cozy. In the rear of the cavernous hall was a small concave area partitioned off by thick curtains of dark fabric, drawn back when not in use. Preceding that was a small raised slab of rock, a bench that had a decidedly altar-esque feel to it. Both were there for the sole purpose of meditation, those preferring a kneeling form over the traditional cross-legged posture taking to the altar.

            Wooden benches surrounded the practice area on all sides—spaced evenly along the walls for padawans who needed a break. Sometimes a padawan might be found studying there with an instructor close behind him, observing closely, offering criticism and critique of the student’s form and technique. Now, however, the students had left the expanse deserted; only Don remained to enjoy the company of whatever routine he decided to practice.

            The comfortingly familiar snap-hiss of the human’s lightsaber echoed off the far wall and returned like a happy pet to its owner. Don welcomed the sound and the grip of his short, bluish blade in his hand. He took a deep breath and centered himself, beginning with the basic forms taught to all novices. He had mastered those years ago, and the swift, graceful movements made his robe bellow behind him with a thin _shwoosh_ through the air. He placed one hand just above the hilt, hovering above the shimmering, hot energy of his saber and whirled it about, softly humming to the oddly melodic tune produced by the blade.

            Sometimes he felt as if it were alive, or as if it was an extension of his arms. But only when he was alone, not under the pressure of a Master’s watchful gaze or the quiet, judgmental stares of his peers. He felt almost as if he were flying, soaring across a great chasm. Unlimited potential, like the whole of the universe was coursing through him. It was a rare freedom he enjoyed.

Then, other times—Don took wide leap to land on the other side of a practice matt—other times he stepped too lightly and lost his momentum. He had crashed many times before in similar bounds. This instance would be no different. A sudden presence had broken his concentration and he lost the step needed to keep him from careening into one of the wooden benches and the torch alight behind it.

            His lightsaber flew from his hands and shut off, clattering loudly against the granite floor and reverberating in the depth of the hall. It paled, however, in comparison with noise attributed to Don when he crashed, crushing the bench and slamming head first into the wall, lamp and torch clattering and going out as they hit the floor beside him.

            The ricocheting sound waves continued for several moments and then died, leaving Don feeling horribly self-conscious and embarrassed by the newest sonic impression his ears received. It was the sound of clapping, a single pair of hands, like metal banging against metal. It stopped and a single large three-fingered claw offered itself to the young human for support.

            “Master Hantoff…” Don stammered, his mouth suddenly dry. He took the hand, not daring refuse the Headmaster. “I--I--I’m…” _I’m in so much trouble_ , he finished in his mind. The expression, as always, on Master Bit’s face was disconcertingly expressionless. He, like every one of his predecessors, had never learned to read the droid’s face properly.

            “A most impressive collision, young padawan,” Bit said, his vocabulator giving a metallic ring to his voice. The tone was not anger, nor was it disappointment at the mistake made. It was almost curious, Don decided, a hint of surprise showing on his face. Usually the Headmaster would be beginning his lecture at this point.

            “Yes, Master,” Don said, bowing slightly. “I apologize. I should not have been out this…” Bit cut him off with a wave of one of his arms, the other three in various positions of comfort.

            Something in the way he was acting made Don a little more relaxed than he cared to be in front of the only Founder left in the Order. “There is not any need to apologize. I know why you came here. There is no shame in that.” His posture made the padawan think that maybe Master Bit was smiling at him, possibly mischievously, as if he had been guilty of the same transgression before. “We should all be so fortunate to be as dedicated to training as you,” Bit continued.

            “Thank you, Master,” Don replied. Where was the lecture, he wondered. The Master’s tone was so casual that it left him wary. But he could not very well leave without being dismissed. He tried to apologize again and slip away to the barracks, but was once again quieted.

            “Now tell me, padawan--why are you having trouble sleeping?” Was that it? Obviously, the Headmaster’s nightly patrols had caught him during numerous attempts at sneaking out of the dormitories. “I have watched you in here training many times,” the master confirmed his suspicions. “We have tried to increase your physical training as much as we deemed you were ready for, in hopes that the tax on your body would help you rest better. But it seems that that is not the reason why you come here.”

            Bit motioned for him to take a seat on an undamaged bench. Don did so and felt much more relieved when the Master brought for himself a second bench and sat before him. “Why are you here, Don Mi-ow?”

            He knew that the Headmaster would know if he were lying or not. So, he decided, it was his unhappy duty to report the truth. “It’s my training, Master,” he said, voice shaking slightly. “I think there is something wrong with me. The only time I seem to get it right is when I’m alone.” And it was true, from his point of view. For years now, he had a feeling that he was deficient in almost all areas of his training, save some of the academic endeavors. His lack of skill with a lightsaber was an oftentimes painful testament to this.

            He had first noticed as a youngling that he had trouble with the most basic Force techniques. Moving a simple object, a rubber ball, had taken all of his concentration and will to do. It had only moved a fraction of what others had done. Meditation had come difficultly as well, and he found it hard to clear his mind to recite the mantras and litanies.

            When it had come time for the more advanced forms and styles, he had failed utterly. The Headmaster’s tradition of saber combat had made a fool of him, and the more traditional forms had also found him lacking severely. Thus, only one school was suited to him and even that he found extraordinarily complicated. The application of projecting his vision and view of the world to other sentient beings was something he was unable to achieve; even with the aid of his instructor, the visions were blurry, vague and irresolute.

            What sort of barrier prevented him from connecting wholly with the Force? Don could not conceive an answer in his mind, and he doubted very much that even Master Bit had a logical explanation of his limitations.

            Don snapped his back to the world around him once more, straining to make sense of Master Bit’s words. He had begun to doze, the crash he sustained knocking fatigue into his body. He stifled a yawn and nodded. Once again, he was unable to keep his mind clear and failed to understand Master Hantoff’s words.

            Master Bit must have noticed, for he had a gift for such perception, and abruptly stood. He motioned for Don to stand as well. No argument issued from the human and he did so, hoping that he would be dismissed having missed a good half-hour of rest. Happily, his hopes were fulfilled, but not without an admonition--one which, in all reality Don had coming--before escorting him back to his room.

            Don found his bunk and slid beneath the thick sheets, resting his head. A quiet moan emanated from the bed beside him, then the form shifted and resumed its nasal fortes. He sighed and watched as the Headmaster slide the dorm’s door closed, and then dropped off into an exhausted sleep.

* * *

             Long lines of text stared grimly up at him from the piece of flimsy before him. In the entire library of the Order, there was only one small case of actual books. These contained a detailed record of the Order, and Don Mi-ow examined them closely. He had been looking for something, but as the day wore on (in almost complete solitude for his transgression the night before), he had turned to reading them instead, forgetting what he had originally set out to discover.

            Don sighed and looked across the table. His counterpart also set himself to studying, but the contemporary records were of a more secular history rather than the Order’s chronicles. His red skin and thick horns gave the Iktotchi a menacing glare, but the thick built sentient only looked back at Don and sighed in the same exasperation.

            The human decided to break the quiet tension that had overcame them during their rummaging. He gathered up his notes and shuffled them about loudly before slapping them down on the table with resounding _thud_ , drawing a speculative glance from his cohort, Meed Kartol. “You were snoring again last night,” he said plaintively. That ought to produce some response, he decided, having become tired of silence.

            “You didn’t sleep again,” Meed asked him. Expression on the Iktotchi’s face, too, was hard to read. Meed tended not to show much emotion, and kept a tight lid on his personal affairs. Nevertheless, his tone usually betrayed some hint at the goings on in his mind.

            Don really did not want to run the subject of his insomnia into the granite floor again. “Do I ever?” he asked, trying to remain collected. He and Meed had met as younglings, grown to be fast friends and still retained that friendship. The problem with the red-skinned sapient was that if he was asking, he could manipulate the conversation to go anywhere he wanted--a natural phenomenon, the human guessed recalling rumors.

            “No,” came the answer. “And I didn’t snore either.” Maybe the other would take mercy on Don today and let him be. But no, Meed would never do that. It was not in his nature, nor could Don blame him. “You went to the training hall again?”

            The human nodded. “I probably woke the east wing again, too.” Don shook his head ruefully and rubbed at the painful bruise that had formed on his upper arm. “I still can’t seem to get it right. What’s worse, Master Hantoff caught me.” The Iktotchi’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly. “I can’t remember if he lectured me or not--I was so tired afterward.”

            Meed glanced down at the pile of holodisks he was sifting through and brushed them aside, leaning forward. “Is that why he wanted us to come here? Searching through the entire library for a secret known only to the Dantooine council and Master Bit?”

            Suddenly Don gasped, remembering what he had been looking for. The pile of books next to him toppled and spilled to the floor as he unsheathed a piece of parchment and scanned over it.

            “What?” Meed questioned, taken aback.

            “I think I found it,” Don said, a curious mix of excitement and relief flooding from his mouth. “Master Bit asked us to see if we could find any clues as to why Master Nokturne left the Order, remember?” He pulled another book from the pile and flipped open to a page a third of the way through it. “There were rumors of a disagreement between him and Master Bit about something. I’m wondering if that wasn’t the reason why he left.”

            Yes, that was most definitely a possibility. The assignment about Master Nokturne had come seemingly unexpectedly to Meed and Don, yet there was urgency in the commission that bode very badly for anyone involved. No one had heard anything about Master Nokturne in almost a decade, and his style of combat had been banned from the Praxeum, by decree of the Dantooine council, supported only half-heartedly be the Headmaster. But why had the council chosen to exile him?

            Certainly, Master Bit knew the answer. So why, then, would he ask the two padawans a question to which he already had the answer. It was an exercise in futility--unless there was an ulterior motive. Don leaned back in his chair, rubbing the stubby mess still growing from his chin. “Is it possible,” he wondered aloud, “that Master Nokturne was exiled for other reasons than what we see here?” He paused, giving an inquisitive look to Meed, who only stared back and shrugged mildly--an oddly human expression for an alien.

            _Lovely,_ thought Don. He wished he could read minds, some time, and then promptly dismissed that. While having a minimal connection to the force, he had a wonderful ability to recognize temptation. He breathed in loudly and deeply, trying to calm his mind and shield it from a growing migraine. The records were incomplete, like the pages had never existed. “What about the holodiscs? What was the last record of Master Nokturne being off world?”

            Meed scanned the holodiscs and datapads dutifully for several minutes. Meanwhile, Don’s head continued trying to expand and explode as he scanned through the books once more. The gaps were staggering--that there should be only one reference to Nokturne leaving the Order, and that in itself was only a footnote added after the fact. This was to be a short investigation, Don decided.

            “There is no record of where he would have gone,” Meed announced suddenly. “It looks as if you are right, my friend. The records here are as incomplete as yours, and much more difficult to erase entirely.”

            “One of the famed Jedi secrets,” the human nodded. “Someone knows something and we aren’t being told.” Yes, the secrets that had been stockpiled and offered to the Force for annihilation included this latest exploration into the realms of the past. Master Bit would surely want to hear about it, of course; and that hearing would include a hand written report.

            He pulled a pen and inkpot from a drawer in the table, as well as a few sheets of flimsy and began his work. Meed, seeing that this was a case-closed gesture, agreed and set to work on his own work.

  _Fin_


	2. Chapter 2

            Turned at an angle from the main passage was a not-oft-traversed, nondescript corridor—typically left alone by most students. A little ways down that hall was a very dull door on two rusted hinges that squeaked when it opened. The door was marked in unexceptional letters, “Office,” and the only hints to its true nature were the equally plain words “Authorized Personnel Only.”

            As a matter of doctrine, no one entered the office of the Headmaster without his express invitation, lest he never be heard from again. The Headmaster, left to his own devices, rarely ever extended an invitation to other faculty, the students, and certainly not Don. Rumors circulated that the Headmaster stashed his personal memorabilia away in a secret vault hidden cunningly somewhere within the office. The unlikelihood of this, though, never penetrated the masterminds of these rumors. The vast nature of the collection incited wild fantasy and daydreaming; in the times between classes and training, the padawans on Mynersha favored speculation as to the relics, which also, coincidentally, were a thing of legend.

The other masters were perplexed that Master Bit would allow the propagation of such myths. Indeed, if they knew that it was the he who began the rumors, they might have passed out. His stories of adventures long past and of the founding of the Order put many minds to work postulating on the contents of his secret vault. The list, ever changing and always more fantastic with each recitation, included time capsules, cryogenically frozen military officers, stuffed vornskrs, crystals of exceptional rarity, and other, much stranger, artifacts.

            The reality of it, Don found, was askew. As the Headmaster spoke, the young human found himself mesmerized by the unimaginable ordinariness of the little room. There were, of course, signs of an extraordinary life, a long time ago. Not a time capsule by any means, but in the corner sat a bowl marked “Dees’l” in bold letters and a faintly glittering gem sat discreetly on a shelf next to a model spacecraft.

            “…I wanted your opinion on the matter, padawan…”

Don blinked, shook his head. “I’m sorry, master. What was that?”

Bit scooped up a bundle of papers and straightened them out. “I have read through Meed’s report on the holonet records of our Order, and I’ve read through your report. You both come to the conclusion that something is amiss.” He set the papers down again and leaned forward, electronic eyes unblinking at the human.

            “I haven’t read through Meed’s report yet, master,” Don told him, unsure as to where the conversation was headed. “It was obvious in the Order’s records, though, that information was missing. Whoever took the missing pages was very thorough, and very clean.” What bothered Meed, though the other would never admit it, was the missing information. Public records were near impossible to dispose of as completely as they had been. It should have bothered Don more than it did. But what put him out was the question of who deleted that information.

            Master Bit continued, “I have the sense that you are withholding something.” It jarred Don to think that he was so easy to read. “There is a great deal more here than my optical sensors indicate, padawan. I want to hear your opinion on the matter.”

            Admittedly, Don felt the same way. This assignment was a great deal more weighted than he had previously thought. If the Headmaster, being far stronger in the Force than he was, sensed something amiss, than Don could only imagine what might be lurking in the shadows—what the _Headmaster_ might be hiding…

            That was the answer he had been seeking. The records regarding Master Nokturne would have contained his whereabouts, previous assignments, and physical description. Anyone with enough patience could find him, so long as the records remained intact. It would only be logical, then, that whoever disposed of the missing information was trying to protect Master Nokturne…

            “Don, are you paying attention?”

            “Huh—Oh! Yes, master…” What were they discussing again? The reports from him and Meed, yes, but master Bit had said something about there being more to the matter. That was it. “I apologize, master. I was gathering my thoughts and I became distracted.”

            The Headmaster leaned back to his prior position. “Yes, I had noticed,” he replied. “But as to my question, padawan: What did you not include in your conclusions?” How would he phrase it? Master Bit would sense any hesitance on his part, making a cautious approach sound more like he was unsure than anything.

            “I think—uh—master… I think you might have taken the pages.” Don winced as he heard himself blurt it out. “I—I’m sure you had good reasoning behind it, master! But what did you need to protect him from?” He was not sure of it, but the human thought he could sense an air of thoughtfulness, and something else. He looked carefully at the droid master, trying to discern any possible hint as to emotion Master Bit was trying to convey.

            “You have discerned incorrectly, padawan,” Master Bit said slowly as if coming to his own realization.

            Did the Headmaster not know as much as Don had supposed? Then it was an actual investigation and not just a test of his deductive prowess. That also meant that someone had successfully infiltrated the praxeum and its remote facilities… and the public offices of Mynersha’s administration.

            “Who could have broken in, Master?” Don asked, suddenly flooded with concern. Mynersha had always been safe as far as he knew. Not since the founding of the Order of Saint Elsa had there been even the rumor of a threat to the Order.

            “Calm yourself, padawan,” Bit reassured him, sensing the tide rising within the human. “Our order is as safe as it ever…”

            Don breathed, and counted to ten, waiting for his heart rate to even out again. Of course Mynersha was safe. It was remote, on the outer rim of the galaxy and barely noticeable in the backdrop of galactic commerce and politics for the past hundred years. So the padawan was calm again, and tried to focus on the authority in front of him.

            “Go now, Don, and confer with Meed. Meditate and we will discuss this later…”

            “But Master Bit, shouldn’t we continue our….” Bit waved him off dismissively. He must have already figured out who had done the deed. For all his work, Don had been useless to help in the investigation. “Very well, sir.” With that, Don stood and bowed, and turned to leave.

* * *

          The snap-hiss of light sabers echoed in the training hall. Two dull gray balls hung in the center of the room, surrounded by students and their silvery blades, ready to do battle with the multi-faceted remotes. In all, the ten of them were rather annoyed with the repeat of this particular exercise, as it tended to sting.

            “Remember, the object is not deflection in this exercise,” master Drid spoke. “At least not for everyone.” He was a young man compared to the rest of the faculty, with a swath of blond hair and stubble adorning his head like a bubble. He spoke confidently to his students and encouraged the same mannerism in all his students as well; often he would couple his speech with a flare of drama, as he did now, arching a brow at Don.

            Don, however, found it disconcerting, and tried not to focus on Drid. Instead, he concentrated on the remote and his exercise partner, Meed. The goal, as he understood it was not for him to deflect stun shots from the remote, but to attempt to anticipate and warn Meed of impending danger. This, while maintaining a level of alertness enough to keep from being shot himself, made Don acutely aware of his weak connection to the Force.

            _Just concentrate on the ball_ , he told himself, and steadied his breathing. _Eyes closed, mind open…_

                The first shot came streaming from the remote toward one of the other students. She danced out of the way and the bolt hit the granite wall behind her partner with a sizzle. Another shot came from the second remote, this time heading in Meed’s direction. _Left._ Half a second before, the Iktochi native swirled left and bounced the bolt off his blade back toward the remote. _Right, down, jump…_ as three more seared the air.

                He was doing well today, Don decided. Not one blast had hit him or Meed thus far, and he had even succeeded (a rare occasion) in deflecting one bolt away from himself. This would go on for several more minutes before their instructor called a halt to the assault on his students. “Up, down, left, right, jump, down again, and try not to singe your uniform, Don!”

                _Prrrrrrrrp!_

                Don yelped as a stray shot stung his arm, and then went numb there as his light saber fell from his fingers and shut off. His arm would be limp for an hour, now, and once again he would endure the well-meaning laughter and criticism from his peers and instructor. He looked over at Master Drid, who stared back with an arched brow and hit a button on the remote’s controller.

                “That’s enough for now. You all did well today,” he said, genuinely enthused. “But don’t just focus on the remotes or your partner. Expand your horizon to every living creature within the room.” He walked over to Don and picked at the human’s uniform, pointing out a small black stain on the dullish blue fabric. “That’s where Don made his mistake,” and he added to him privately, “though you are improving.”

                “Yes, master. I’ll continue practicing.”

                Drid nodded and checked the chronometer above the door. “That’s all for today's lesson,” he said. “Go get cleaned up and don’t be late for dinner. East dorm is cooking tonight.”

* * *

                 Don should have been excited. Out of the three small dorms in the compound, North, South and East, East was undoubtedly the best group of chefs on Mynersha, save for the resort cooks in the hotels above them. Even with their antiquated equipment, they never ceased to amaze their fellows. Wading through the semi-crowded corridors leading to the commons and cafeteria could not dampen the spirits of the students, who knew they were in for their day’s earned reward.

                The ever-present scent emanating from the kitchen seemed to draw the praxeum’s compliment forward, enticing them with a smell so rich and palpable, Don might have cut through it with his light saber. The young man followed Meed, shuffling politely into the cafeteria, bowing in greeting to the praxeum’s three masters as he and his roommate padded past them and into the line of waiting students.

                Yet in all the bustling excitement over the midday meal, Don still felt ponderous. Something niggled at the back of his mind. A lingering doubt, he supposed it was, and a sense that something was going to happen to mar his mealtime revelry. He picked up a tray and plate and allowed the server to heap sustenance upon it.

                Don hardly noticed. Since the night the Headmaster had caught him in the training hall, and the subsequent assignment—and his utter failure to discover the perpetrator of the break-in—he had only discussed it with Meed this one time.

                That conversation was short-lived, consisting of the few basic questions and a short run-down of each others’ reports. Surprisingly, his roommate had uncovered nothing on his own and had therefore not dared to make any accusations or postulations. Only a hint of a smile touched his lips as Don admitted to accusing Master Bit.

                “How did the Headmaster react, then?” he asked, taking a seat at one of the many benched tables.

                “He might have laughed,” Don replied, scratching his head, then sitting down across from Meed. The Headmaster had not reacted at all, actually. Don sighed and wiped his brow, still damp from the training room exertions. “He probably knew what I was going to say… I was wrong, of course. But I got the sense that Master Bit realized the answer on his own.”

                Don poked at a slice of meat distractedly.

                Meed swallowed. “How did you gather that?”

                “The look in his eyes, I suppose,” Don said, realizing how absurd it sounded. It was strange that a droid could convey so much emotion without facial expression. Though it was common knowledge that he was not actually a droid—merely encased in one. The Headmaster had probably become an expert on conveying such things to his organic counterparts.

                He wondered if Masters Nokturne or Deo had ever had the same experience way back when. _Wait? Master Nokturne…_

                “The archives were completely erased on the topic of Master Nokturne,” Don said, suddenly aware of another possibility. “And as far as you could gather, Mynersha’s public records had been tampered with as well?”

                Meed nodded. “That’s right. Nothing in the public records alluded to him in any capacity. Why?” Don, one of the few people who could read Meed’s stony visage, could read him now. The red-skinned alien’s interest was piqued.

                “We weren’t thorough enough.”

                “Just wait a standard minute. We went through the archives high and low for hours on end. There was nothing.”

                Don smiled for the first time in days and waggled his finger at Meed. There was one place left to check and it seemed that even Master Bit had forgotten about it. “The private archives in the Administration Building. Master Bit didn’t have us check them, nor did we think of it until just now. And the security is so tight there that Master Bit can’t get in without an escort.”

                Meed shook his head. “Our security is just as tight. Master Bit patrols the grounds each night with the other masters. Master Drid locks the outer doors himself.”

                “But a Jedi Master, familiar with the grounds and security procedures could get in like a worm into pudding.” How had Don missed it? How had Meed missed it, with his poking and prodding into every facet of the assignment? “Master Nokturne erased the records himself. And without proper clearance, there would have been no way to get inside the Admin Building without leaving tell-tale clues as to who did it.”

                Meed looked thoughtful. Don was sure that he was contemplating their next course of action, though it seemed rather simple to the human. They should report it to Master Bit as soon as time allowed. Don frowned. Time would not allow for several more hours. He, like Meed, had several classes yet to attend.

                The young man sighed and began to concern himself with the task at hand. There would be very little time, indeed, to speak to the Headmaster. Maybe, however, he could catch the Headmaster in passing and mention it. He glanced over to the Masters’ table where sat the instructors and found Master Bit watching him with what Don would have called a curious look in his electronic eyes.

                Not often did the droid interrupt his presiding over the meal. Thus, Don was confused when Bit beckoned him over to his table. Indeed, the unusualness of the situation was not lost on Meed, as his typically controlled visage broke into a contortion that Don had not seen before: confusion.

                Both of them shoveled down their plates in uncharacteristic fashion and dropped them off for the kitchen crew before making their way toward the Masters’ table in the back corner of the dining hall. Each of them bowed low in turn to their instructors and then turned questioningly to the Headmaster.

                “I have given it some amount of thought,” Bit began, somehow easily heard over the din of dozens of students. “As I know you have only just now come to the same conclusion as I have, you are instructed to take the day, tomorrow, and investigate the Administration Office’s private records. Sift through them thoroughly, pertaining to our Order and Master Nokturne.”

                The two padawans looked at each other nonplussed. _Now how did he come by that?_ Don thought to himself, mentally scratching his head. _The Headmaster must have exceptional hearing. Especially over all this,_ and he had the feeling that the entire commons was packed shoulder to shoulder.

                “Go, now, rest. Master Drid has already made the proper arrangements,” Bit told them. The two students nodded and bowed once more before shuffling off in the direction of the south dormitory, talking between them of the mountains of holo-disks they would shortly be sifting through.

  _Fin_


End file.
